


A Day in the Life

by PoisonKisses



Series: How Poison Ivy Got Her Groove Back [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Comics, Justice League Dark
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 16:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7851760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonKisses/pseuds/PoisonKisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poison Ivy is trying to settle down and have a reasonably normal life.</p>
<p>Normal is relative when you're a living Goddess and walking talking WMD!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day in the Life

**Author's Note:**

> I really have grown weary of Poison Ivy never having in fics dedicated to HER in the search results. This is the first of several to try and fix some of that. Consider this a prologue to the series.
> 
> Canonically this fits just post-Cycle of Life and Death.

She had a routine.

Her day usually started right at sunrise. Since the incident and her transformation, she was wide awake as soon as it crested the horizon. It wasn't just the sun, it was the voices.

Every green growing thing within a mile woke up as well, and she could hear them all straining toward the light, hungry and happy. Many humans groaned and grumbled and stumbled like the walking dead to their coffeemakers, but she was up with a smile and a spring in her step. She'd quickly change into an old pair of coveralls (usually that meant less changing and more putting something on--she preferred to be naked whenever possible and slept in the nude) and a flannel shirt, put on some hot water to boil for her morning tea, and tend to them. Telling her green friends good morning, giving them a drink, complimenting them on their growth, and maybe even doing a little light pruning or weeding (her version involved transplanting the mischievous little plant to its own pot rather than killing it.)

When she was alone, she'd make her tea and sip it while checking the news on her laptop and listening to the birds singing, watching the squirrels and rabbits in the nearby vacant lot go about their own morning routines. The news always put a damper on her spirits, but she had to stay abreast of current events—had to know who was committing what crimes against those she loved.

Sometimes she had guests. Harley would sleep most of the morning if allowed, but she was practically a carnivore. Her diet consisted almost exclusively of meat and processed sugar, so Ivy would start breakfast and the smell of sizzling bacon and sausage and three eggs--over medium with sprinkles of cheddar cheese--would have her stumbling in, sniffing appreciatively. Ivy didn't care for meat—her own system required so little nutrition that it was a waste and she was functionally a vegan—but she'd make an exception for Harley. Meat production ate up many resources and was environmentally unsustainable, but Ivy knew how to pick her battles. If it kept Harley from eating three bowls of Frosted Sugar Batty-Os a day, it was worth it.

Selina could be lured in by coffee. Ivy grew her own beans and ground them for her, and Selina would pad silently in, pour herself a cup, and sit curled up in a chair with both hands wrapped around her mug (it had a kitty face on it and the word 'Meow' on the handle), breathing in the aroma and taking slow sips with nearly erotic “Mmmmm's” every few minutes. After a bit of this, usually halfway through the cup, she'd finally murmur, “Morning, Ives.”

That was her signal, and she'd answer, “Good morning, Selina,” and set a plate with a bagel, cut in half, and the cream cheese next to it in front of her friend. Harley had moved to a different city and in many ways moved on with her life, so Ivy found Selina there more often than not. Maybe, in recent weeks, Selina understood how much Ivy missed her absent sporeling daughters. Selina needed it too, she'd been frozen out of Batman's life and their strange little on-again off-again romance seemed to have cooled. For both of them, it seemed like the world had moved on and left them behind...

At any rate, soon Selina would be off with a cheeky “Ciao, baby!” and Ivy would spend the rest of the morning at the lab, working on whatever her current project happened to be. Since the incident with the sporelings, more and more she was growing curious about herself. Testing her limits. For much of her admittedly failed career as a criminal she'd been content to be, for lack of a better term, lazy, and depend on pheromones or using animated plants to fight like blunt instruments. She was tired of that life, and deep down she knew it was time for something more. Something better.

Part of her knew something was on the horizon. 

She was tenacious, however, and if anything could be said about Pamela Isley, it was that she never gave up.

Lunch would usually mean Darshan popping into her lab and the two of them would be off to the park, where she could sit in the sunshine and nibble on a piece of orange or grapefruit and occasionally enjoy the sunshine while he chatted (sunshine was a rare commodity in perpetually smoggy Gotham). After a recent epiphany, she'd been watching people closely—watching how they enjoyed the outdoors, how they interacted with her green friends. Most people weren't evil or necessarily cruel, they were ignorant. They didn't realize the pain they caused. She'd spent years trying to frighten them or even kill them to protect her loved ones, but she was becoming aware that simply didn't work. She needed to educate them, and humans were too stubborn to respond to something like fear. She'd have to find a better way.

She'd spend her afternoon at home, sunning if possible. Her body had adapted to photosynthesis, and a few hours in clean sunshine and a couple glasses of water was most of the nutrition she needed.

She'd spend the late afternoon in the garden and greenhouse, putting her friends to bed. She kept them company until, one by one, they'd drop off to sleep as the sun set, and then she'd spend the rest of her evening reading. Sometimes she'd enjoy a glass of wine with a modest dinner, though it was unnecessary. Alcohol had no effect on her and she really only ate or drank for the pleasure of taste. 

Left to herself, this was the routine she enjoyed.

Unfortunately, she was Poison Ivy, one of the most powerful metahumans on the planet—a woman on the same government watch lists as Doomsday and Sinestro.

Trouble had a way of finding her.

So tonight, just as she was settling down to some kale chips, a glass of Merlot, and the Scarlet Letter (the book, not the godawful movie), her doorbell buzzed. She grumbled, pulled on a robe (she was naked, as usual) and flung it open.

Standing in the doorway was a bloody, beaten, and bruised John Constantine. He was holding a box, and in that box was the severed, but still animate and talking, head of Zatanna—a woman she simply didn't get along with.

“Hey, Ivy.” The head chirped—very chipper for not having a body.

“Hello, Love,” said John, looking about as sheepish as John Constantine was capable of looking. “We're in a bit of a pickle...”

“And by 'pickle,' he means the whole world,” explained Zatanna Zatarra, who now was wearing her serious face.

“Huh,” said Ivy.


End file.
